


(I'm the) Lucky Bastard

by thewolvescalledmehome



Series: Lucky Bastard [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Kinda, Modern Royalty, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:42:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24548593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewolvescalledmehome/pseuds/thewolvescalledmehome
Summary: Lucky Bastard (fic for Queen Sansa Royalty Event) told from Jon's PoV.When Mance Rayder gets invited to a ball for Queen Sansa's suitors, he sends the pretty Jon Snow instead. Jon views this as just another mission.But then he meets the queen.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Series: Lucky Bastard [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1774222
Comments: 17
Kudos: 176





	(I'm the) Lucky Bastard

**Author's Note:**

> Someone mentioned how it would be interesting to see from Jon's PoV so I wrote this instead.
> 
> Don't be surprised if there's a wedding eventually.

Jon saw the deep red envelope as soon as he stepped into Mance Rayder’s office. It was a stark contrast to the other files and papers that were off-white. It was glaringly different. Jon didn’t think he’d seen anything quite so bold in the office.

He was even more surprised when Mance handed it to him.

Jon immediately saw that it had been opened already, but whatever it contained had been folded back in neatly.

“What’s this?”

“An invitation.”

He unfolded the heavy paper to see a fancy script that he almost couldn’t read, there were so many curls and swirls.

“To a ball?”

He didn’t realize that anyone this far north held balls, aside from holiday celebrations. The people here didn’t often appreciate or have use for such frivolousness.

Once his eyes finally were able to focus on the font, he realized it wasn’t from someone in the kingdom. It was from Winterfell Kingdom.

He had known from the news that there was a new queen, a young one. One in search of a husband, it seemed.

 _They’re considering you_? Jon almost blurted, but he bit his tongue. Mance let him get away with his sharp tongue more often than he should, but Jon knew Mance wouldn’t appreciate that comment.

Especially after he lost his wife two years ago.

“I’ve heard she’s beautiful,” Mance said, shuffling papers on his desk.

 _I’m sure she is,_ Jon thought. He had seen her once or twice as a child, when he had still lived in Winterfell. When he still worked in the palace kitchens. She had been young then, but pretty. He wouldn’t doubt that she had grown up to be beautiful.

“I’d like you to go.”

“To the ball?”

“In my place. If she’s truly the one making the choice, I’m sure there are better options than me for a young woman. And her advisors, if not the queen herself, will view my son as a complication.”

Jon agreed to that. No one who just ascended to the throne would also want to acquire a toddler. Getting a husband and a child in one fell swoop would not be an appealing option.

Certainly not a young woman in her twenties.

“If I attend the ball, I’m sure the young queen won’t even consider me. If you go, however…”

Jon looked up sharply.

“You want me to _pretend_ to be you?”

He knew Mance had done dishonorable things. So had Jon. Things that had to be done for the greater good. Things he wasn’t proud of. Things he agreed to anyway.

Jon didn’t know if he could agree to this.

“Of course not. That would be stupid. But you’re a pretty face. You can talk me up to her, and talk to her advisors. No doubt they’re the ones pulling the strings. Convince them what a strategic alliance this marriage would be.”

Given what Jon initially thought Mance was trying to ask him to do, this seemed tame. Doable.

Except it meant returning to Winterfell Kingdom, to the palace.

To the place he left over a decade ago, vowing to never return.

He thought he’d ensured that when he enlisted with the military in Mance’s kingdom, rather than his own. In some kingdoms, in some eras, that would render him a traitor. The only reason it didn’t was because of the tenuous alliance Mance had struck when Ned Stark was still king.

The one that would be strengthened by a marriage.

“You’re to leave by the end of the week. I’ve secured a temporary leave house for you on the base near the palace.”

“And if I refuse to go?” Jon asked, just to be sure he had a choice in the matter.

Mance glanced at him, more amused than irritated.

“I’ll send someone else. And you can spend your time however you intended before we got the invitation. But Snow?”

_Here it is._

“I don’t have anyone else so pretty to send.”

Jon smiled, the tension in his shoulders unraveling at the old joke.

* * *

The palace was just as large and grand as he remembered.

As a child, the palace had filled him with a sense of wonder and awe. He wondered what it was like to live while wanting for nothing. He wanted to know what it was like to always be warm, be fed.

As a teen, after taking the position working in the kitchen, it filled him with resentment. Who lived with such excess? Such lavishness? There was no way the royal family actually ate all the food the kitchen prepared on a daily basis. He hated it for how they were always warm and fed and he grew up cold and hungry.

Now, returning as an adult, Jon couldn’t care either way. It was just a building.

It was the people inside who mattered.

They were the ones who made it a battlefield. One he had to navigate.

It wasn’t his preferred battlefield—he did much better with a weapon in his hands than trying to use his words to wound, but this was what he’d been tasked with.

At the door to the ballroom, Jon handed a man the invitation Mance had received and explained that he was there on the king’s behalf.

The man nodded, marking something down, and waved him through.

Jon had never attended a ball before, but stepping into the room, he was instantly put at ease.

It was barely a ball. It was mostly men. He thought, aside from the queen, there may have been a handful of other women at most. It looked more like a summit of world leaders, dignitaries, and military personal more than anything.

Jon had thought he might stick out in his dress uniform, but he was far from the only one.

What did make him stick out was his age in combination to his uniform. All the other officers were considerably older than he was.

If Mance was right, this was peacocking for the advisors. A chance to prove why they would be a suitable match. That meant the best use of his time would be selling Mance to them first, rather than trying to get an audience with the queen.

Plus, it clearly seemed as though none of the other men had the same idea, given the circle of men that currently surrounded the queen.

* * *

After nearly two hours at the ball, Jon had spent the majority of it talking with the advisors who were stationed along one wall.

He suspected, though, after talking to them, that Mance hadn’t been wholly correct. He thought that the advisors definitely had their favorites, but their hesitation to agree to anything suggested that maybe they wouldn’t be the one making the final decision.

Jon wasn’t sure if they were narrowing the queen’s choices down for her or giving her the illusion of choice. He wasn’t sure which option was less offensive.

He knew he should at least make an appearance with the queen, but when he left the advisors there was still a circle surrounding her. He stepped out into the courtyards for fresh air instead.

The stature of the palace walls and the glamour of the ballroom had done nothing to impress him, but the gardens and the hedge maze they led into even he could admit were striking.

Glancing back through the windows, Jon saw that the number of men waiting to talk to the queen had only grown in the few moments he spent outside.

Knowing he had made a decent enough impression on the advisors, Jon figured he could kill some time in the maze before he tried to fight his way into an audience with her.

* * *

The sound of rapid breathing startled Jon.

He should’ve known someone would sneak out to the maze for a bit of privacy. He thought he might sneak past them so that they were actually alone, but as soon as he turned a corner in the maze, he saw the queen, alone.

And trying to unzip her own dress.

“Oh! I’m sor—"

Jon paused. This was clearly not the romantic tryst he thought it was.

This was…

This was a panic attack, he realized.

“C-can I help?” he asked, stepping toward her.

“I can’t breathe,” the queen gasped. “I can’t breathe.”

Her arms were twisted backward in a way he thought looked torturous. He didn’t know if her dress was actually the reason for her inability to breathe, but this was clearly what she wanted.

Her breathing, her panic, transported Jon to the battlefield, a real one. He was no longer thinking about how it was the queen in front of him, or it was her dress he was unzipping.

She wasn’t a woman, and he wasn’t a man.

She was a civilian who needed help, and he was a solider.

Jon slid the zipper down enough that he thought it should help, but it was clear she was still struggling to breathe. Logic told him to unhook her bra—that it was probably just as tight if not tighter than the dress itself.

She felt light in his hands, as if she were made of feathers or air. When he felt her tip back toward him, he held her waist tighter.

“There’s a bench here,” he murmured, guiding her to it and sitting her down, trying to make sure he didn’t see anything he wasn’t supposed to.

The queen took one deep, shuddering breath, and he kneeled in front of her, trying to see her face. She was startlingly pale.

“Are… Are you all right?”

He wanted to offer her water or juice, but he was in a garden maze at a ball. He wanted to offer her something, but there was nothing he could do.

But then she was looking at him, her eyes a clearer blue than he was expecting. They looked like stained glass, he thought.

For a second, he was the one unable to breathe.

“Better. Thank you… Captain…?”

“Snow. Captain Jon Snow.”

“Thank you, Captain Snow.”

The queen saying his name almost made him smile. It was years of military service and schooling his features that forced his face to stay blank.

Instead, he reminded himself that this was the queen whose dress and bra he’d just undone.

Jon straightened suddenly, bending to a bow, half to hide his flush.

“Your Majesty.”

He could feel her eyes on him, but he kept his eyes ahead, the way he was trained.

“Were you in the maze alone, Captain Snow?” the queen asked.

“I was, Your Majesty.”

“Was the music not to your liking?”

Jon suspected he heard a joking tone in her voice, but he couldn’t be sure.

“I liked the music just fine. It’s… It’s the crowds I’m not a fan of,” Jon admitted, far more honest than he had planned on being. He wasn’t a fan of crowds, especially ones full of pompous, peacocking notables. “I-Is that what brought you out here as well?” he asked, stupidly.

The queen had him tongue-tied, but it wasn’t her title. It was her eyes.

“The heat and champagne had got to my head.”

Jon nodded, looking away, toward the maze. He couldn’t look at her eyes anymore. They hypnotized him.

“That’s not entirely true.” Jon didn’t resist the pull to look at her again. “It wasn’t just the heat and the alcohol. I couldn’t fake my way through another conversation.”

If Jon hadn’t been staring at her, he might not have noticed how her cheeks turned a pretty rose pink.

“Shall I leave you, then? Your Majesty?”

 _Tell me to leave,_ Jon thought. _Tell me to leave so I don’t say anything stupid._

“No. Stay. Sit, please.”

The queen slid over suddenly, offering him space to sit beside her. He sat as close to the edge as he could, trying to maintain appropriate distance.

Trying to sit so he couldn’t see the open back of her dress, of her bra.

“Tell me something.”

“Anything, Your Majesty.”

“No, no. I meant tell me something. Anything. Anything to keep me from going back in there.”

“Oh. Um. Alright.”

Jon started talking about Ghost then, thinking it was a safe topic. It wouldn’t lead his mind down paths that weren’t possible.

* * *

They talked far longer than was probably appropriate, especially considering that her dress remained open. As did her bra.

Jon supposed he should mention Mance, or his kingdom. Something to endear either the king, the land, or the people to her. Something to explain why he was at the ball in the first place. Because if it wasn’t for Mance, Jon wouldn’t be there at all.

He didn’t though. He just kept talking to her as if they were somewhere else, and if they were anybody else.

As if she was a woman in a bar who’d had a shitty date and he just happened to be there. It was innocent. Friendly.

It made him forget who she was. Who he was.

It made him regret coming into the maze—coming to the ball.

* * *

Jon had felt the breeze turn chilly a while ago, but talking with her had made him immune to it.

It hadn’t done the same to the queen he noticed. Her great expanse of exposed skin was covered in goosebumps.

“Shall we go back inside, Your Majesty? You’re shivering.”

Jon hadn’t meant to add the second part. He hadn’t meant to indicate how closely he’d been looking at her.

“You’ll have to do up my dress first,” she whispered.

He thought he heard a catch in her voice—something that made it sound different than she had before. Something that lit him on fire.

When Jon had unzipped her gown, unhooked her bra, it had been in a moment devoid of emotion or desire. It had been the logical move to help her breathe.

Rehooking, rezipping was different.

Jon didn’t think he’d ever rehooked a woman’s bra before. He’d _un_ hooked his fair share, which was probably why he hadn’t felt anything when he’d undone the queen’s.

Rehooking was new. He’d never pulled the two sides together, looped the hooks through the eyes and watched it settle back against her skin, obscuring the line of her spine.

His knuckles brushed her back. He was surprised at how warm her skin seemed, given how she’d shivered before.

He felt a flush crawl across his skin.

Jon didn’t understand. He’d been with women before. Why did _redressing_ this woman make everything in him curl with desire?

He tried to clear his throat, shake the images of him and the queen from his mind, before rezipping her dress.

The fabric swallowed the ivory skin, voiding his temptation to kiss along her spine.

“There,” he murmured, voice embarrassingly low and rough. His fingers gazed the skin above her gown one last time. He savored the velvet feel against his rough fingertips.

“Thank you, Captain Snow. And thank you, for before. Though I’d prefer if you didn’t mention it to anyone.”

“Of course, Your Majesty.”

Jon was eternally grateful that his voice sounded normal again.

“Would you care to escort me back inside, Captain Snow?”

Jon looked at her. He might have hated the palace and everything it represented, but if she hadn’t been a queen, Jon would’ve asked this woman out. Kissed her. Brought her home and fallen in love with her.

But she was a queen and anything beyond this moment would exist only in his dreams.

So he said the one thing he could to extend it just seconds more.

“Please, call me Jon, Your Majesty.”

“If I’m to call you Jon, then you must call me Sansa.”

That was not what Jon thought she would say. He’d hoped, or maybe prayed, that she would say something to enforce distance between them. Something about how it would be improper.

He never thought she’d suggest further familiarity.

“Sansa,” he repeated. Just to hear himself say it. Once.

He offered her his elbow before anything more could happen.

* * *

Back inside the ballroom, Jon found one of the waiters and grabbed two flutes of champagne. He hadn’t drank anything earlier, when he was talking to the advisors, but now all he had to do was wait for the announcement.

And he could wait with a buzz.

And a buzz would made him forget about how velvet soft the queen’s skin was, or how his name sounded against her tongue.

* * *

Near midnight, the advisors gathered on a podium near where the band played. Jon had probably had a half a glass too many, but his only task now was to report back whatever name they announced.

“Her Majesty, Queen Sansa of the House Stark, has decided to postpone her engagement—” Gasps and shouts filled the air. Jon rolled his eyes. He thought this had probably been the plan all along. They couldn’t have been expected that she actually propose before midnight, had they?

“—She will consider her options and make her decision before the week’s out. Thank you all for your attendance.”

Everything considered, Jon thought that sounded reasonable. He knew he’d have to call Mance with an update, but he could do that in the morning, after coffee. When his fingers weren’t still tingling with how her skin felt.

* * *

“Is the queen as beautiful as the rumors?” That was Mance’s first question.

“More,” Jon answered, more honestly than he should have. “She’s as beautiful as a painting, but her eyes look like stained glass.”

“Good, good.”

“She’s not just beautiful, though… She’s smart, far smarter than I think her advisors realize.” He’d watched her at the ball last night, marching across the ballroom to get whatever information she needed. He suspected that she had the advisors wrapped around her finger, or could if she wanted to. And he was pretty sure she could do it without them becoming aware, which he thought required more skill than anyone realized.

“She’s a good queen then?”

“A good woman,” he answered automatically. “I’d marry her,” he blurted before he could stop himself.

“That right, Snow?”

Jon had blushed several times last night, but none of those times had made him feel quite as sick as he did in that moment.

“If we’d met in other circumstances… If she weren’t queen… Yeah, I’d marry her. In a heartbeat,” Jon said, because all he could do was own it. Mance would give him hell if he tried to retract what he’d said. “Whoever ends up marrying her will be a lucky bastard.”

“So, end of the week, eh?”

“That’s what the advisors said.”

“Keep me updated.”

Mance ended the call without any more preamble.

* * *

Jon kept his phone charged and volume fully up for the entire week he stayed in the temporary placement in the Winterfell base, but his phone never rang, aside from Mance checking in for updates.

* * *

Jon didn’t realize anyone had this address until his doorbell rang Friday evening. He thought maybe it was some people from the base, asking to see if he wanted to join them for drinks.

He was not expecting to see the fucking queen.

“Y-your Majesty?” he stuttered, once he finally was functioning enough to open the door.

“Shh! _Sansa_ ,” she whispered. He wasn’t sure if it was a reminder to call her that or an indication that she didn’t want people knowing she was there. Or both.

“What can I do for you, Sansa?”

He thought he’d get a phone call from her advisors to indicate either way whether or not she’d chosen Mance. He didn’t think she’d actually appear.

He supposed that meant she was choosing Mance, if she came to tell him in person. It was the only thing that made sense.

Jon tried to push away his disappointment. If she had picked someone else, it would have been easier to deal with. If she picked Mance, he’d have to see her. Talk to her.

It would be impossible to forget the memory of her undone bra, unzipped dress. The feel of her skin against his fingers.

“C-can I come inside?”

 _Stupid._ He was so stupid.

“Oh, yeah, a’course. Please.”

Jon swung the door wide for her.

He wanted to explain that this wasn’t his place. It was basically a hotel room for traveling soldiers and officers, but the fact she was shaking her hair out, and the way it draped over her chest to her waist, made all the words die on his tongue.

“Can I get you something to drink?” he asked instead.

“No, thank you.”

Jon stared at her, waiting for her to explain her presence.

“So, um… I’m sure you’re aware of the purpose for the ball last weekend?”

 _Here we go,_ Jon thought, steeling himself.

“You’re in search of a husband.” He forced as much stoicism and bravado as he could into the six words.

“I am, yeah. But I understand you were there as a proxy?”

The queen—Sansa—stepped closer to him. Almost awkwardly close. Jon tried not to read into it.

“I was. Mance Rayder was unable to attend. He sent me in his stead.”

“And what did you report? If you’re comfortable sharing?”

Jon studied her. What purpose did this serve? Was she trying to figure out how Mance would respond to her?

 _What fool would do anything but love her_? Jon wondered.

It was her eyes. Her eyes and the pink innocence of her quirked lips that made him answer honestly.

“That you’re beautiful,” Jon whispered. “And smarter than anyone gives you credit for.”

He looked away with the confession, because her eyes could make him spill his soul. And because he didn’t want to see her reaction.

“Is that all?”

“Is there something else would have liked me to tell him?”

“Have you been reading the tabloids?”

The non-sequitur made his head spin.

“Gossip magazines don’t really make their way onto base,” he muttered, trying to understand. “No offense.”

“None taken.”

Jon pushed his hands into his pockets. He was struggling falling her train of thought, but that might have had more to do with how he was focusing on not staring at her than anything else.

“You’re in the lead,” she whispered at last.

Now he was looking at her. He connected the dots, but he must’ve done it wrong because there was no way the conclusion he arrived at was the right one.

Absolutely no way.

“In the lead… For your husband?” he asked anyway, because he was stupid. Because he needed her to tell him plainly what the hell she was doing here.

“The papers didn’t realize you were there by proxy.” She shrugged.

Jon hazily recalled how purposefully she’d strode across the ballroom. He wondered if she’d played a hand in it. The determined glint in her eye that night and the far too innocence one now suggested she had.

But still.

He had to be sure.

He’d been wrong before.

“And, what, you promised to propose to whoever the public preferred?”

Because why else would the queen be interested in someone like him?

“No,” Sansa whispered. She stepped closer.

Her feet were nearly between his. Their noses almost brushed. He could’ve kissed her if he wanted to.

If she weren’t queen.

“I made my advisors promise to leak your name to see how the public felt about you.”

“And they preferred me?”

Jon didn’t understand what she was doing. Was she here to propose to Mance by proxy or not? What did he have to do with anything?

“I wanted to prove that you’d be a good match.”

Sansa stepped closer again, and this time Jon could feel the heat of her skin. He could smell her shampoo. She was close enough that if he took a deep enough breath, his chest would expand enough to brush hers.

He held his breath to ensure that didn’t happen.

To ensure he didn’t say anything stupid, like _marry me._

“I don’t understand,” he muttered once he had his tongue under control.

He might’ve been able to command his words, but his eyes he kept away from her face. Her eyes would enchant him, he knew. She could ask anything of him, and he’d immediately agree.

Jon’s fingers, however, had a mind of their own. They grazed Sansa’s and the sparks he felt had him clenching his jaw.

He couldn’t focus with her this close.

“I dreamed about you, after the ball.”

Her breath danced across his face and Jon thought he might faint.

“You did?”

Jon lost control of his eyes then, and they found her face. Her beautiful, pretty, rosy face. The bow of her lip and— _no_. Jon looked away again.

“What are you doing here, Sansa?”

She still hadn’t said why she was here. It seemed— _seemed_ —like she was choosing him, but he wasn’t an option. She couldn’t choose him.

Could she?

“I’m trying to propose, Jon.”

 _To me or to Mance?_ he wanted to ask, but that wasn’t how you spoke to a queen.

“Because the public prefers me? And you’re trying to avoid what happened with your brother.”

Plus, he’d seen what had happened with the previous king, her brother. She was far too smart to make the same mistakes he had.

Jon could feel her eyes on him, but he refused to look again. He refused to break.

He would not allow himself something that he could never have.

“Sit with me,” Sansa said suddenly.

Jon was grateful for the excuse to move away from her, to lead her to the spartan living room.

From the corner of his eye, he watched her perch on the sofa before he sat himself on the opposite end. He made sure to maintain appropriate distance between them.

“I wasn’t privy to the guest list before the ball. I didn’t know who my advisors thought to marry me to. I certainly hadn’t been aware that some of the men had sent _proxies_.”

The vitriol in the word made Jon flinch. Was this why she came? To call him out for taking Mance’s place? For taking up so much of her evening and not once mentioning his king’s name?

“I thought you were there as a suitor. After you escorted me back inside, I went to tell my advisors that I was going to propose. That’s when they told me you were there for Mance Rayder. I leaked your name to the press as one of the men I was considering.”

Jon understood the words she was saying, but assigning the appropriate meaning required more effort.

“I wasn’t invited, though. Your advisors clearly didn’t think I would be an appropriate match. Or an equal one,” he muttered.

“But you’re the one that I want,” Sansa _—the queen_ —whispered.

“But… You’re the queen. I used to work in the kitchens. What… Why…?”

Jon hadn’t intended to let that tidbit of information slide, but he figured she’d probably had a file made on him. He doubted there were any secrets in his life anymore.

Jon was considering how different their lives were, how stupid he was, when suddenly the _fucking_ _queen_ of Winterfell Kingdom got on her knees in front of him.

He felt his spine straighten automatically.

“I’m choosing you, Jon, if you’ll have me,” she whispered. Her hands graced his knees. Her fingers burned in the most pleasurable way.

“I still don’t understand. Why me?”

“Because you helped me breathe at the ball, and because talking with you was the only time I wasn’t pretending all night. Because I dreamt about how it felt to have you undo my gown. Because…”

Jon swallowed, hard. His heart was pounding, hard.

“Because I think could fall in love with you if I let myself, and I want to, Jon. I want to fall in love with you.”

He had shoved his hands under his thighs, but at her words they moved, as if they meant to grab hers, but his brain was able to stop them before he grabbed the queen.

“M-may I?”

Sansa nodded and Jon grabbed her hands, pulling her to her feet so that their bodies were flush. So that he could feel her everywhere.

He wrapped his arms around her waist, his hands covering her back. He was trying to touch as much of her as he could before she pushed him away.

Because she had to push him away eventually, right?

_Wrong._

She kissed him instead.

She kissed him hard enough that he fell back onto the couch. Fell back so that her knees were straddling his lap. So that her skirt was rucked up high enough that he saw the creamy columns of her thighs.

Jon’s hands caressed her thighs, uncontrolled. Pushing. Waiting for her to push him away.

She rolled her hips against him instead.

It was that and not her pushing him away that brought him back to his senses.

“Wait, wait,” he gasped, pulling back. His chest was heaving, probably just as much as it seemed hers was.

He was unable to remove his hands from her waist, no matter how his mind screamed to.

“This isn’t… It isn’t proper.”

It was because he still didn’t understand. He still couldn’t comprehend how she could—would—choose him when he wasn’t even an option.

“Are… Do you not want me? Not want to marry me?”

Jon stared at her. It was the closest thing to a proposal that he understood. Probably because of how direct it was.

There was no way he could misinterpret that as a proposal for Mance.

“Of course, I want you, Sansa. Walking away from you at the ball was the hardest thing I’ve done. I told Mance that you were beautiful and smart and that if you hadn’t been queen, I probably would have proposed on the spot. I told him that whoever marries you would be the luckiest bastard.”

It was honest. Too damn honest. The queen—Sansa—didn’t want to hear him be this honest.

“So you’re the lucky bastard,” she whispered, giggling. She wrapped herself closer. All the insecurities Jon had flew out the window with her touch.

“I’m the damn lucky bastard.”

And Jon kissed her again.

Because apparently, he could.

He could kiss her anytime he wanted to.


End file.
